


Leave A Trace - LUCAE remix (original club edit)

by aosc



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Music, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2018-12-27 15:31:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12083973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aosc/pseuds/aosc
Summary: The first time Prompto hears about it is when Vyv slaps a scrappy flyer down on his desk. “Kid,” he proclaims ceremoniously, “I want you on this.”Prompto peers at the glossy paper, attempts to smooth the torn edges and crumpled inner out. On it is a sketch of a crown, and below is emblazoned in large, regal script:LUCAEV.V.DCCLVCitadel, Plaza Cristal 3, 22 — 06





	Leave A Trace - LUCAE remix (original club edit)

**Author's Note:**

> TRACK LIST for the mood of the fic. if you want it. a long one, bc this is one long fic. (tech house, techno & muddy electronica, mostly):
> 
> cloud rider — paul kalkbrenner  
> leave a trace (four tet remix) — chrvches  
> bermuda — harvey sutherland  
> szikra — kornél kovács  
> heartlines (race banyon remix) — broods  
> between the devil and the deep blue sea — XYLØ  
> sorry i am late — kollektiv turmstrasse  
> birthday card — marcus marr feat. chet faker  
> desire (original mix) — tensnake  
> NEW DORP. NEW YORK — SBTRKT feat. ezra koenig  
> moon games (original mix) — animal trainer  
> atlas world — liu bei  
> u got my body (original mix) — nora en pure  
> horny (radio slave and thomas gaudy just 17 mix) — mousse t  
> true disaster (cut snake remix) — tove lo  
> hey now (bonobo remix) — london grammar  
> desert (cosmic cowboys mirage mix) — ron flatter  
> double dance lover (radio version) — mount liberation unlimited  
>  
> 
> ...or you can just put the gotg mix tape on. because when i wasn't fleshing the music n club parts out for this, i listened non-stop to george harrison, fleetwood mac, sam cooke and rupert holmes. bc contrasts.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “No, okay, now you listen to me, Prompto, my man — this gig is a _once in a lifetime_ chance. LUCAE’s going to have made it big by the time he hits Accordo this summer. Who snaps the story’s not gonna matter, it's going to be out there either way. So you hear me when I tell you that this should be _huge_ for you. Alright?” 
> 
> Dino's pearly whites flash obnoxiously at him where he smooths the car into movement again. Prompto doesn’t like to give Dino any credit, but fair enough, this time — that’s nice of him, given that they’re competition and all that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey y’all! if i’m doing another au? you bet i am 
> 
> i want to begin with saying that large chunks of this story is in customized css. of course — you don’t have to have the customized style function enabled, but i recommend you do. the longer the fic progresses, the more it's going to rely on the use of mixed media to work the mood, and i think it adds a lot to the feeling of it. (and also maybe a little bc i spent as much of my time coding this as i did writing it, lol). 
> 
> since i have not touched css since i was about fifteen, i cannot thank the amazing people around the archive who’ve spent what is surely a considerable amount of time putting tutorials and tips for customizing skins out there enough. it helped me get back into the groove of coding a great deal.
> 
> i’m like a proud trashcan mother. this fic is my crackiest brainchild yet. inspired by (and fill for, if you’ll have me, anon) the amazing prompt over on the ffxv kink meme:
> 
> _Modern AU - Noctis is a dj, Gladio is a bouncer, and Ignis is a bartender, all at the same club. Prompto just wanted to check out his low light photo settings, but somehow he keeps coming back._ (http://ffxv-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/3451.html?thread=3576187#cmt3576187)

* * *

 

The first time Prompto hears about it is when Vyv slaps a scrappy flyer down on his desk. “Kid,” he proclaims ceremoniously, “I want you on this.”

 

Prompto peers at the glossy paper, attempts to smooth the torn edges and crumpled inner out. “What is it?” he asks.

 

Vyv’s a special character, and an even odder boss — incredibly inventive, but odd. He constantly manages to dig out the gigs of the DJs and artists, the bands, who are on the cusp of making it. It’s why METEOR’s arguably one of the largest independent music webzines out there right now. Getting a spread feature in the ‘zine is pretty much equal to scoring a big venue gig; the traction they have is, needless to say, good.

 

“‘S a club gig, so I know that’s not usually what I’d put someone with your digs on,” says Vyv. Prompto twists in his chair, so that he can look up at him, hesitantly expectant.

 

Vyv waves a hand in front of himself, “Yeah, I know you also know. But hear me out, okay? Citadel just finished renovating, there’s new management there now, gone on and on about the bookings they’ve got going for themselves. I’ve seen their spring lineup — it’s _good_. Emphasis on good. If your kinda thing’s techno and house, you’ll be going nuts when they go public. _That’s_ how good it is.”

 

“Okay, right, I get it,” says Prompto, puts his hands up to make the raving stop, pun not intended.

 

He does know Citadel; a multi-story club famed for its selective door policy and Thursday through Sunday opening hours. First opened in the early 700’s in the basement of the original building as a safehouse for the underground rave scene, it’s since grown into one of Insomnia’s nightlife hotspots, queue often making a long ringlet around the block during busy hours.

 

Despite this, it’s not easy to get in. The door policy is that it doesn’t have a policy: you’ll get in, or you won’t. There’s no hierarchical determination of who gets in and who doesn’t. You’ll either know someone on the staff, or you’re someone who’s gone there for years, or you’re just very lucky. Phone lenses are taped, cameras are confiscated, and the photos that do emerge and land on Instagram, or on Twitter, are murky and dim, scenery often obfuscated by the roil of bodies that seems to always permeate the club’s shut in world.

 

“So, I’m — going there for one of those gigs?” asks Prompto. Needless to say, _he’s_ never been there.

 

He looks at the badly smoothed out flyer again. On it is a sketch of a crown, and below is emblazoned in large, regal script:

 

 **LUCAE**  
V.V.DCCLV

Citadel, Plaza Cristal 3, 22 — 06

 

Vyv nods. He points, a little unnecessarily, to the poster. “This one’s going to be the new face of Lucian house soon enough. He’s been pre-booked by clubs all over the country for months, and according to his agent, he’ll be headlining the Accordo Festival this year. Pretty big gigs for someone who’s never been published in anything, _period_.”

 

Prompto nods slowly. “Yeah…” He doesn’t know the name, no matter how he digs for it among the scraps of his memories. Maybe he should feel bad for missing out on something that’s obviously the latest thing, but it’s not been played on the radio, so. Then again, house isn’t his forte, exactly: he likes it well enough to dance to, but there are myriads of subgenres, and Vyv wasn’t kind enough to tell him which of them this particular one belongs to.

 

Prompto sincerely doubts he’d be able to tell, anyhow, if he’s that fresh on the block, but, he’d at least known what he’s getting himself into. “So there’s _really_ nothing on him somewhere? The internet knows everything, boss.”

 

“Nope, not a thing,” says Vyv, “Guy’s a real mystery. Never shows his face, so there’s nobody who’s been to a gig who could tell you anything about him. The perfect scoop, in other words.”

 

“He never shows his face?” asks Prompto, skeptically. Sure, that’s an old trick in the book that has worked for most artists who’ve tried it — for a limited time, anyway.

 

Vyv shrugs, “ _Performers_ , y’know.” He drags the word out sardonically.

 

Prompto snorts, “Yeah. A right mystery. Well, you leave it to me. I’m sure I can dig up something.”

 

Prompto clicks open a new tab, and does a quick picture search for the name. He gets the same logo as the one printed on the poster, and a few generically lilac and maroon-lit club pictures that showcase other DJs Prompto is, shockingly, vaguely familiar with.

 

But otherwise, nothing. A normal search does render in a couple of articles, a couple of streaming services that offer his music, and link-ins to forum threads that discuss the faceless artist. But, as Prompto scrolls, there’s nothing noteworthy to highlight. He frowns.

 

“What’d I say,” says Vyv, “He’s a _ghost_. If the music’s good, it’s a nice marketing strategy. Not a sensation, but it does the trick. Adds to the — _appeal_.”

 

Prompto isn’t sure, but he nods slowly, “Gotta top up that PR, what’re you gonna do. Anyway, standard lenses, nothing fancy as specs, I guess?”

 

“Uh huh. You know best,” says Vyv, “The 11-16mm you dropped off for repairs should be all done by tomorrow, by the way.”

 

“Nice. _Is_ it tomorrow? My flashgun’s cracked down on me, I’m gonna have to run out to get a new one, in that case.” Prompto calculates: tomorrow is Friday, which means he’ll be out for another job until roughly midnight. An all nighter, then. He’ll have to pack a smaller bag with a change of clothes and turn it in at the door. He hopes Citadel _has_ a wardrobe.

 

“Oh, right,” says Vyv, sounding as though he’s forgotten something trivial, but decides to tell Prompto anyway now that he’s asking, “It’s on Sunday. Club opens tomorrow, he’s closing it out. Ravers, y’know. Three days of hardcore partying in a row’s just what they do. Nothin’ to it but be happy. You decide when to show up, and when to leave. I don’t mind getting some of the opening act, but LUCAE’s scheduled for the two thirty through six slot, so tip is to get some shuteye in before that. You’ve got Monday off, just make sure you don’t miss the Astrals deadline at twelve.”

 

“Six… Jeez.” Prompto pulls a grimace, and feels approximately like a hundred years old.

 

Vyv smirks, the old bastard, “You’re young! Unlike the rest of us, this is the kind of thing you’re supposed to live for.”

 

Prompto grimaces. Flipping his sleeping pattern off and doing a one eighty on a Sunday, of all days, isn’t something he feels like living for.

 

He quickly goes over in his head the hours he’ll be pulling over the weekend: he’s doing the Astrals gig in the Dome tomorrow night. Will probably have to stay in on Saturday to do post processing and editing. The slough of it’s due for a Monday band portrait, deadline at twelve o’clock, and a Wednesday editorial on shooting big stage bookings, for one of METEOR’s adjacent daughter ‘zines. It focuses more heavily on the technical aspect of shooting musical gigs, whereas METEOR itself is all about the tunes. The Sunday night slot, as well as the Monday deadline, means that there’s no way he’ll get any work done on Monday morning. He’ll be out clubbing, for all intents and purposes. He’ll most likely spend most of the actual day catching up on sleep, so any deadlines he has, he’ll have to push up to Saturday evening, or Sunday morning.

 

Vyv waves a flippant hand in the wake of his silence. “You’ll make it work,” he says.

 

Prompto will, he always does. Logistically, it’s a bit of a nightmare, but who doesn’t live for a challenge, right?

 

“Now, gettin’ to it,” continues Vyv, unconcerned, “I want full disclosure, right? I want to _feel_ what it’s like in there. Shoot some location while you’re at it; I know there are restrictions, but just detail shots. The crowd, close up decor, the mix table. I want the _feeling_ , y’know? The pulse of dance music at its height: give me somethin’ _special_. EDM’s on the rise, we need to take advantage — strike while the iron’s still hot.”

 

He tries to think of a simile a little better than that, but — “Yessir, I will be — getting my forging on.”

 

Vyv chuckles. He slaps a large palm onto Prompto’s shoulder, nodding, obviously satisfied. “That’s the spirit,” he says.

 

After he’s given Prompto a few more specs regarding the venue and what types of shots he _has_ to get for the piece to work, he twists on his heel, waddles away through the largely empty office space. His long hair is tied down on the back of his tee, and he whistles noisily on a Top 50’s tune that Prompto immediately cuts out by slapping on his headphones. _Not today, Moogles_ , he thinks, of the song, and puts on one of his favored work playlists on reMIX. He tabs up the search window again, quickly backtabs through the searches, and retypes: _insomnia_ _citadel club pictures_.

 

He’s in for a research hour or two.

 

*

 

 **The Insomnia Music Journal** @IJMusic  
Stairway to Heaven: Watch  @AstralsBand talk about 35 illustrious years together as they prepare for final tour ijmu.lu/4s@cLp  
  
**Somnus: Out In Insomnia** @SomnusNews  
What’s Happening, Insomnia: Reopening Citadel, Live Viewing of Galdin Film Festival & Galahd Club Imports  somn.ws/Lu7Cl9x

 

*

 

Prompto rides the tram home, and busies himself with the LUCAE tracks that are available on reMIX.

 

He likes knowing what he’s getting himself into when he’s covering new musicians. Partly because he enjoys discovering new artists: the reason he’s working for METEOR is because he loves the musical aspect, almost as much as he loves the photography aspect of the job. He’s pretty much an all eater, and likes to prep for each job by listening to what he’ll be covering on that particular night.

 

But suffice to say, house is _not_ his thing. It’s a thing he listens to, as is much else, but he doesn’t know a lot about it. Sure, the Accordo Festival’s a huge electronics event, where both renowned techno DJs, as well as prominent house acts, play in front of roughly one hundred thousand people during a span of four days over each summer solstice. Prompto’s never scored that particular job, but it’s on his bucket list, for sure.

 

LUCAE, for intents and purposes unknown to Prompto, is branded a house DJ. But he notices, once he’s found the artist and thumbed into the track list, off the bat, isn’t a house DJ, as Prompto knows them. He’s a _techno_ DJ. Of which Prompto knows less than he knows of the first genre.

 

The first song he queues is a remix of some one-tune club hit. It’s thirteen minutes long, and only staggers up into something that can be likened to a bridge, before a drop, when the beat minutely changes up into equal parts choppy and aggressive. Its electronically charged drum beat is slathered with sampled, repetitive layers of nonsensical song, which heightens, heightens, builds into a crescendo that drops — Into the same, single tone bass again.

 

The bridge repeats thrice, and only switches up once: once the song is coming to an end. There’s a breakdown, Prompto notes; a minimalist pitter patter noise that shifts, sounding discordant and off-kilter, and transitions between Prompto’s right and left ear bud. The outro coda’s just a mush of aggressive cymbals and looped up synth, and when the final note goes out, Prompto wonders at why this particular DJ labels as some sort of second coming for the genre.

 

Okay. So he can see the appeal — stoned sky high on a rave in some tall forest on the edge of a marshy landscape in Cleigne. Not on the mainstream capital billboard.

 

He pauses the next queued track, and thumbs down the relatively short ‘Popular’ list — consistent of four songs. He scrolls down past Albums, which is empty, and past Singles, which features two four song mixtapes, wherein the before mentioned thirteen minute song serves as the closing track to the first. No, he thinks, not really something he could get into.

 

It’s when he gets to the ‘Features On’ list, that his interest is piqued once more.

  1. **Leave A Trace** — **LUCAE remix** ( _Original_ _Club Edit_ ) — **Fleuret** , **LUCAE** — _Leave A Trace_ (The Remixes)



 

Prompto’s covered Fleuret once: the Tenebraean brother and sister duo who’ve made their name a household in the electronica genre. They’re world artists at this point, bound for Lucis once before the year’s over, with a sold out 70,000 capacity arena in the bag for this tour.

 

The singer songwriter sister, Lunafreya, has grazed more lifestyle, fashion and music magazine covers than Prompto will ever read in his entire lifetime. Her voice is wistful, a little deep, and achingly lovely. Her brother and co-writer, meanwhile, keyboardist talent Ravus, is one of those aloof, angle jawed, fair haired girls’ dreams that Prompto tries to stay away from, if only for the sake of maintaining his own self consciousness at a somewhat respectable level.

 

The original song, _Leave A Trace_ , is an upbeat, though melancholy piece of electronica that became the duo’s first major mainstream hit barely a year prior. It has thus far spawned 36 million listens, its own album of remixes, a dozen reMIX-available covers, and it plays on the radio at least thrice a day. It’s been months since its initial release, but it shows no signs of slowing down. The song was the first single released before their self-titled debut album dropped. It’s sold platinum, and is well on course to becoming the most streamed album of forever.

 

Prompto selects the track, and plays it. A little nonsensically, he hopes that the DJ hasn’t completely botched the thing.

 

The original song, 3:57 long, extends into nearly eight minutes of playtime in the remix; the groundwork for which is set off by three overlapping drum and pad lines that fill Prompto’s headphones for the beginning one and a half minute. Unlike the previous song, which had relied heavily on, what he presumes, the listener’s state of mind — here he finds, that over the original melody, shuffled about and beat up into a quicker framework, the scaled off sound works surprisingly well.

 

Three minutes in, and Prompto’s tapping his foot, nodding his head along, really before he even realizes that he’s actually, genuinely enjoying it.

 

The afternoon sun sluices over the above ground tram station once he gets off at his stop. The base of the club edit is still going in his headphones, playing over a sampling of Lunafreya’s voice, looping back in a transcendent echo that almost makes Prompto shiver with its setup. It’s not a nightclub hit — not like he knows them. But he can imagine it playing, nonetheless — the murky dark backdrop of a club, the track’s vibrating bass rattling in glasses and in flooring. The drum lines layering over multicolored strobes — the echo of _I know, I know, I know_ , Lunafreya’s original line pitched high, shot through with sound effects, folding back and doubling over until the breakdown reaches its peak — and trips into a roiling electro pulse coda that closes out the song.

 

He thinks that actually, it wasn’t so bad. There is something enthralling about the song that sinks its claws into him, something that demands rapt attention of the listener. Nothing about it is mindless.

 

Prompto listens to it once more, before he shuffles back to one of his usual playlists. He allows the music, its familiarity soothing, to blend into the background static of his thoughts. The remix, he puts into a playlist labeled “Night Times”.

 

The short walk home from the tram is a far cry from when he still lived with his parents in the western reaches of the Crown City, on Yun Drive, in the city’s quaint suburbs. Now, he’s got his own flat on the northern cusp of the innards of central Insomnia.

 

It’s not much; 21 square meters of a crammed bed, a tiny, L-shaped kitchenette and a square, pale tiled bathroom. His tablet and stationary computer parked on his mother’s old, worn down cherry wood drawer next to the false balcony.

 

The computer is an old second hand find. It’s stuffed to the brim with his post-processing programs and work folders, despite the fact that he buys circa one portable disc a month to cram pictures onto. Prompto is not a hoarder, per se, and his portfolio is all minimalism and clean lines, almost to a fault — but he doesn’t want to waste the photos he takes. Not even the ones that won’t ever make the cut for a publisher, or for an editorial. They’re glimpses into a crystallized moment in time, a flash of something almost intimately fleeting. It’s something never to be seen again. Most of the shots don’t even make it into people’s memories. They’re almost inane in how domestic they can be: the curve of a shoulder, or the creases of linen sheets, bathed in morning light. The bent back of an old man, seated at a table in Caelum Park, laying out a deck of cards into solitaire. The sluice of shadow thrown by a couple pushing a stroller at sundown.

 

They’re nothing much, but here, on his desktop, in his myriad of folders and among his boxed sets of USB drives and terabyte discs, they’re immortalized.

 

Prompto breathes out once he gets into the elevator, pushes the button for the 5th floor. He palms at his eyes, massaging his eyelids gingerly, so as to not irritate his contacts. His right left wrist aches a little from handling a mouse all day. He’ll find his tablet packed up and ready to take with him, just inside, he knows: he’d forgotten it this morning, in the flurry of having overslept and missed his window for breakfast and the early tram. One of his colleagues, the guy who usually covers club nights and DJ sets, is out with the flu, so Prompto — just his luck, spent the hours of his day not dedicated to researching Insomnian nightclubs, but processing a set of heavy TIFF-files from the local Ebony MA event from last night. It’s not that he _can’t_ make do without the tablet, it’s just more taxing than regularly.

 

When he gets in, twists the lock behind him and shuts the inner door, he discards his jacket on the shoe rack and kicks his trainers off to flop over the hallway floor. He makes a quick beeline for the kitchenette. He stops, just for a second, to glance to the right. There, leaning against the scratched door of his lone hallway cupboard, is his tablet. He glares at it half heartedly.

 

His fridge is mostly empty, but neatly stacked near the top, along with a bottle of Cactuar water, and a jug of iced, organic caf, are two containers of mixed salad with oven baked tomatoes and Lucian Carp filets. He eats one on standing foot, back curved into the rail of his false balcony, watching where, down below, a slow creep of cars slither farther into the belly of the city.

 

Prompto goes to bed relatively early, thinking for himself that he has to get up early to run errands before the 6 PM press let in at the Dome tomorrow night.

 

Astrals is one of Eos’ largest bands; they’ve been around for forever, and always draws a maximum crowd, despite the rapid aging of the members, despite the mellowing show numbers. The fans don’t seem to mind. Prompto’s covered their shows a few times, and roughly knows what to expect by now. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to be fresh for it, though.

 

*

 

 **The Galdin Beacon** @GaldinBeaconNews  
A steeper musical slope and a desire to see inventive, soaring show numbers isn’t enough to intimidate  @AstralsBand gabe.lu/7t3glC  
  
**METEOR** @METEORmag  
@Fleuret debut new single, affirm themselves as Tenebraen musical  mete.or/x8Ke!L  
  
**Lucian Vogue** @VogueLucis  
BACK TO THE FUTURE: In  #VogueLucisJune, Editor-in-chief @Aranea talks what inspired designers to opt for a trip to the archives for #PF35

 

*

 

He gets away from the venue late; lingering behind to catch both of the encores that the band shuffles out for. To put his tripod up long enough to get a slanted panorama shot of the myriads of fans crowding out of the Dome once the show is finally over, and to snap a few quick and dirty shots of the six members filing out behind the stage, dripping with sweat and soaked by entire flasks of bottled water.

 

Once he’s packed himself up, he glances at his watch, and realizes that yeah, he’s going to need all of tomorrow to get this job worked through and processed properly.

 

He shoulders both of his bags, and takes the folded tripod in hand. The walk from the Dome and to the closest subway station is, thankfully, not far, but it should be all the more crowded given the scale of tonight’s crowd.

 

Prompto’s resigned himself to getting home late, on show nights, but he still counts the loss of seconds — of minutes, in which he could’ve sat down at home and at least started rifling through shots, get to work on building a cohesive library.

 

“Yo, Prompto! Need a lift?”

 

Prompto makes a half spin in surprise. His bags slap against his back. Jogging down the loping stretch of walkway leading up to the main entrance, is Dino Ghiranze, of the Galdin Beacon.

 

Prompto raises an eyebrow, barely staving off the urge to leave his sarcasm turned firmly on. Dino and him go back some time. Not all of it is good. “I, uh, didn’t realize I could get one with you,” he says, a little lame.

 

Dino’s mouth slopes in cool amusement. “My favorite Crown City guy,” he says, “My pal, my man, there’s always a seat for you whenever I got one to spare.”

 

He finally reaches Prompto, is barely out of breath, despite the lengthy jog. He shoves one hand through his hair, the other down the front pocket of his raw denim pants. He points towards the employee parking lot. “Car’s just over there, c’mon.”

 

Prompto knows Dino mainly via work, and has a couple of times even collaborated with the Beacon on a few freelance shoots. The paper is privately financed, unlike Insomnia’s local papers, wherein the government pitches in the majority of the monetary funds. It covers everything from politics, to sports, to various forms of entertainment, both local and out of town. Despite its small accruement, its offices are posh, and large, and Dino, as one of its top contributors, gets sent cross-country on all sorts of lavish assignments.

 

Prompto’d say he’d like to have a similar gig, but Dino’s kind of a douche, all lazy vowels and bleach white smirk, so mostly, Prompto’s happy to stick to his job, and his soul, and not work with him, or like him.

 

“I live like, three stops away,” Prompto protests weakly, once he realizes that he can’t just skip off with a promise of tomorrow or next week, lunch on him. Dino either ignores him, or doesn’t hear him over the sound of his no doubt riveting inner monologue, because he relieves Prompto of one of his equipment cases, and herds him towards the sturdy, looming shape of a white SUV. Case in point regarding the job, and the fancy workplace.

 

The GD journo waves a flippant hand. “Nonsense, I’ll take you. ‘S always nice seeing a friendly face about. And besides, my gig keeps me all over the place: we need to catch up.”

 

Prompto thinks not, but, at the same time, knows that once he’s got you in his clutches, he’s not going to let you off the hook without some form of exchange being met and held.

 

He sighs. “There went my daily exercise,” he jokes, as they reach the car. He unshoulders his other bag, and places it, along with the tripod on the floor before the front seat. He climbers in, and shuts the door.

 

In hindsight, he really should’ve figured that the Galdin journalist’d wanted to cover something in particular. He’s usually insistent, but not to a fault.

 

“So,” says Dino, once he’s pulled his door shut, and twisted the key in the ignition. The V10 beneath its hood rumbles to life in a throaty display of engine power it doesn’t really need. “How’s life been treatin’ ya?”

 

Prompto shrugs, “Eh, you know. Same old, same old.”

 

“You solo now, or still with METEOR?”

 

“Still an honest, hard-working employee,” says Prompto.

 

Dino snorts. “Pure as snow, Argentum. Vyv must be real happy about retaining your exclusive rights.”

 

Prompto massages his neck, “Given the amount of equipment I keep breaking for him, I’m not so sure about that,” he replies. He can feel the hot staining of pink embarrassment on his throat.

 

“So bashful,” smirks Dino, “I always thought the sharks’d eat you up whole, what with that attitude. But I hear you’re makin’ your way, scoring exclusives now. The boss was checkin’ passes to the Citadel opener tonight, but from what I hear, someone got there early.”

 

Prompto feels, more than he peripherally sees, Dino’s expectant gaze on him. He refrains from rolling his eyes, and wonders, privately, how he’s the only one who’s managed to miss out completely on the LUCAE hypewagon. “That big a deal, is it?”

 

Dino’s eyes go wide. “You kidding? Every entertainment journo in the know wants to get their grubby hands on this gig.”

 

“Really?” Prompto turns to Dino, “I haven’t heard anything about it. Didn’t know it was happening at all until Vyv gave me the assignment.”

 

“Oh man,” says Dino, overdramatic, “We were all served with the short end of the stick by someone who doesn’t even _know_ how lucky he is. I despair, Prompto, seriously.”

 

“Ugh, come on. Just how special could it be? It’s a club gig; the audience is probably gonna be drunk and high at the same time, they won’t care what he’s playing. Besides, no one’s ever even _seen_ him play. Maybe it’s the biggest hoax of the year — a pre-recorded set and a curtain.” Prompto crosses his arms over his chest.

 

They’re pulling up at the intersection that turns to the right into Prompto’s neighborhood. Dino slows the SUV to a halt, a car’s length behind the little coupe in front of them. “No, okay, now you listen to me, Prompto, my man — this gig is a _once in a lifetime_ chance. LUCAE’s going to have made it big by the time he hits Accordo this summer. Who snaps the story’s not gonna matter, it's going to be out there either way. So you hear me when I tell you that this should be _huge_ for you. Alright? Really, that story is going to go viral, and there’s not going to be a professional in music coverage who’s not jealous it wasn’t them who broke it.”

 

Dino’s pearly whites flash obnoxiously at him from where he smooths the car into movement again. Prompto doesn’t like to give Dino any credit, but fair enough, this time — that’s nice of him, given that they’re competition and technically not as close as Dino seems to imagine, when he’s out scouting favors and snooping for ins.

 

“Well,” says Prompto, who isn’t entirely convinced, but who’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth at any point, “Thanks, Dino.”

 

Dino waves a hand at him, “Eh, just telling it like it is, brother.”

 

They pull up outside of Prompto’s apartment complex after he’s successfully guided Dino through the dwindling neighboring blocks. He thanks him again, and, once again, gets waved off for his troubles.

 

When he pulls his bag out of the backseat, Dino leans back, grin firmly back in place. “So, anyway, if you're so cozy with the club management, how about you score me a spot on the list for the show?”

 

Prompto rolls his eyes. Right, like he’d forget: there’s a catch to everything, when it comes to Dino Ghiranze.

 

*

 

 **Lunafreya Nox Fleuret** @LunaFleuret  
So excited for  @LUCAE set at @CitadelClub tonight. You’re going to kill it, darling x  
  
**Citadel Club | Insomnia** @CitadelClub  
Tonight’s lineup:  @LUCAE takes to #TheLivingRoom, @LoqiTummelt, @Rinoa head #Upstairs  
  
**Ebony Music Academy** @EMUA  
Watch  @LUCAE make history as first ever act to play on camera on @CitadelClub famous Living Room stage. Live stream from 02:30 emua.lu/LUCAELIVE

 

*

 

Prompto rides the subway almost all the way to Citadel’s front door.

 

It’s so ludicrously close to the closest station, being Plaza Cristal, that you could practically stumble out, and into the club. Were it not for the door policy, and the impossibly long queue, and the fact that he never goes to these types of places — yeah. Okay. Fair enough.

 

He climbs the stairs from the underground, and rounds the corner to where the club is located, just opposite from the plaza. He immediately sees the snaking of a line of people waiting, starting a few paces from where he finds himself. Looking forward, he sees its vague ending in the mouth of the ajar front doors of the club, so far up ahead that he can barely spot it. Oh well. He’s already resigned himself to waiting.

 

He peers closer at the people in line in front of him instead: it surprises him that most are dressed — pretty casually. Moreso than he would’ve beforehand given them the benefit of a doubt of being. Jeans, dark shoes, leather jackets. Okay, some, the closer he looks, do look a little _too_ casual to be out partying, but on the other hand, Prompto looks down on himself, and feels like he, for once, fits the mold. He’s in a printed tee and sleeveless cargo jacket, pants and his most worn down and beloved tough boots. He’d dressed informally but still in something that wouldn’t make him feel underdressed.

 

After spotting a sextet of friends that just pass by the entirety of Prompto’s line, and stop somewhere haphazardly, but much closer to the front, Prompto deduces that there are two queues. The long slither for those hopeful who’s not on anyone’s list, and then the shorter one, going on the inside of the long queue. Prompto thinks he can spot ten or so people, ahead of the ones who just passed, who are waiting in it.

 

He makes his way alongside the larger crowd. Approaching the entrance, he sees that the line isn’t held by ropes, but by crowd fencing. The door is nondescript: wooden, a bit scuffed. From inside shines a dim, single-bulb light, and the music that escapes the premises is slow paced, if heavy.

 

Prompto comes to a halt behind two girls, dressed in plateau sneakers and lax denim, gulping down a bottle of wine between them, and minds his own business. Or, well, he briefly thinks, jeez, what stamina, and once again feels like an old man, but also considers that if they’re doing that in this other short line, then that’s obviously just Citadel clientele praxis. He palms a stray, ripped seam in his jacket pocket. He slides his phone from his other pocket a few times, to check it: the low lightning of the screen makes the looming, overhead building reflect. Its renaissance era façade stands out among the newer buildings crowding the area: Citadel is famous almost as much for its decorative innards as it is for its atmosphere; he’d read so on Somnus, anyway.

 

He takes another step forward, mind elsewhere, following along behind the two girls, as he skims through another Somnus piece. This one is about the Galahdian club scene, which’s recently developed a cult following deep in Insomnia’s refugee quarters. It’s pretty long, and it’s easy to lose himself in it.

 

He’s so submerged in the article, in fact, that he doesn’t notice coming front of the queue. To a stop before a hulking shape of a doorman.

 

“You can’t be stoned already in line, kid, that’s not how this works.”

 

Prompto nearly jumps.

 

He looks up, forcing his phone down his pocket again. The man before him — the bouncer, is, for lack of better wording, _huge_. Nearly as wide as he is tall, with ropey muscle clearly visible across his forearms and in the slope of his neck. He stands jacketless, in only a tee, before Prompto. A tee which, for the record, leaves absolutely zero to Prompto’s imagination. One of his eyebrows is raised.

 

“Uh,” is all that trips off Prompto’s tongue, not at all like a moron.

 

The bouncer’s expression remains flatly unimpressed.

 

Prompto shakes his head. A starch, ugly blush is already threatening to break out across the bridge of his nose. “I mean — sorry. I’m on the accredited list, if that helps? I mean — “ he waves his one free hand in front of him, haplessly, “I’m not stoned — obviously. I just. Expected something else? Never mind.”

 

The bouncer’s eyebrow creeps even further up his forehead, towards his low hairline, which slicks backwards in a surprising rendition of a thick mane of hair that’s — a mullet. The bouncer has a mullet, in this modern day and age. A really good one, mind. Honestly. The bouncer is really, _objectively_ , good looking, Prompto thinks, a little like a moron.

 

Prompto grimaces, “It’s — it should be under Prompto Argentum. Or, me. I’m — him. I’m with METEOR. I have credentials. And an ID. Obviously.”

 

For a minute, Prompto thinks that, well, techno isn’t his thing anyway, and neither are really exclusive clubs. Because the bouncer, the big, impossibly large man, that he is — looks at Prompto, his head slowly tilting, his expression remaining impasse. Prompto can’t decide whether he feels like a trapped, cornered animal, or just plain dumb, for making a mess out of himself without even trying to.

 

The bouncer slides his palm free of his front pocket. In it is his phone, which seems tiny and crowded in the man’s large hand. He glances at the screen, and thumbs down a few paces.

 

“Seems that you are,” he says, after a few beats, “Wow. Really thought you were shitting me.”

 

Prompto heaves a deep sigh, doesn’t even attempt to hide it. The bouncer glances at up again, critically. “Kid, you’re a mess. And not in a cute way. Here’s a tip for you: try to play it cool. ‘Cause right now, you’re one verbal screw up away from making it. I’m serious.”

 

Prompto frowns. He peers closer at the bouncer. “I — really?”

 

The bouncer’s mouth slants into a smirk this time, all languid and amused. “Sure, trust me,” he says, and then waves for Prompto to pass by him. “Have fun. And for your sake: _don’t_ do any drugs.”

 

Prompto balks, “I’m here to work,” he insists, “And, are you really encouraging your guests to do drugs if they aren’t a hot mess of a person?”

 

The bouncer simply looks amused, a slip of teeth showing as his smile grows wider. “Did you just call yourself a ‘hot mess of a person’?”

 

Prompto imagines his personality enables him to enjoy torturing people for amusement. He fights down the rising flush on his neck and cheeks, and heads on inside rather than replying, prompted by the frustrating stomping of the crowd at his back. He can hear the bouncer chuckle, even as the music swallows him up, as soon as he enters the building.

 

Inside is balmy.

 

The heat almost immediately crawls up Prompto’s back, through his jacket to slip slide down his neck. He keeps his jacket on, knowing that there’s a balcony, which can be accessed for staff. The woman in the wardrobe, a tiny, warded off area just inside the entrance, checks his credentials, when he pulls the zipper open to show her the innards of his equipment bag. She grunts at him to pass, waving his card away. “On the house for staff,” she says, and stamps his wrist instead.

 

He wanders through a long, poorly lit corridor that only leads forward. His shadow grows watery and hard to spot, the farther he walks. The lightning grows consistently murkier. Where the lack of any artificial light becomes starch, the music, instead, grows more insistent. The bass reverberates through Prompto; it tolls in his spine and shrivels up in his knees. The overlapping synth curls easily around his neck like a content cat.

 

The corridor, long and chalked out, eventually twists left into a carpet clad staircase. The naked walls have made the music sharp, but well here, the carpeting serves to muffle it. The stairs are long, dwindling the farther he climbs. He clutches his bag to himself, and where the crowd grows thick, just at the top, he gently buffers his way past the people who seem content to just stand in everyone’s way.

 

The corridor at the top branches off into three rooms: to the left, Prompto can spot a bar, through the throng of people. Before him is an oval room, half empty yet. A large DJ booth is elevated on a small stage. A girl is currently mixing some scaled off techno that needles through the large speakers mounted in every corner wall around the upper floor. His right sees the slice of a largely empty room. If he’s got the layout right, you go through it to access a balcony, as well as a climb down to an adjacent, lower floor, on which LUCAE will be playing in an hour and a half. Prompto’s early, admittedly: but he likes to scout beforehand, and he hasn’t had a chance to do so yet.

 

He elbows his way to the bar, first. It’s a tight squeeze in the sweltering heat of the place. Despite the fact that the walls are tall, and there are old, barred windows on the far wall, the tight pack of the crowd makes a trickle of sweat snake down Prompto’s spine. He grimaces.

 

Three bartenders man the long bar, buzzing all over the place, serving guests up. Prompto eyes them quizzically, noticing that half the servings are alcoholic, and half are water. With the temperature, he understands it, but boy, where does the income originate from, if not from here?

 

“Yes?” comes a crisply pleasant voice, if there was ever such a thing. Prompto looks up. The bartender, in contrast to his laxly dressed colleagues, wears _suspenders_ , over a starchily ironed white shirt. His hair is carefully spiked, and he wears sharp glasses.

 

Prompto is stumped for a moment. “Just — a beer. Thanks.”

 

The bartender nods, perfunctory. He reaches down and around himself, simultaneously, wasting no movement whatsoever. From his back pocket, Prompto hazards, he pulls a rubber clad opener. From below, a flask. He keys it open with practiced movements. Prompto hands over his card. The bartender looks flatly at it. He doesn’t accept it.

 

“On the house for staff,” he says, parroting the woman in the wardrobe.

 

Prompto blinks. “I — “ he says, “How did you — “

 

“Please,” says the bartender, “Apart from the fact that you cradle your bag to you like within its contents is the most precious thing you own: this establishment is scarcely home to the press. For those of us who listen to our briefings, Gladio notwithstanding, we’ve been alerted to the fact that there is now a _journalist_ among us.”

 

“…You could tell I work here tonight from the way I hold my bag,” says Prompto, again, like a moron. He feels like one, small and slow, in the presence of this man. He doesn’t waste his energy trying to correct him, much because of this very reason. Prompto is not, strictly, a journalist. He’s a photographer. Who works for a magazine. Prides himself on it.

 

“The most precious possession people bring with them here is consumable. One way or another,” says the bartender, unprivy, as he is, to Prompto’s inner monologue.

 

Prompto snorts, a little unwillingly, at the tart comment. “Right, nice,” he replies, “Um, well then — I’m Prompto. From METEOR. Photographer.”

 

“Once again,” says the bartender, “I am aware.” His eyes, smartly green behind his glasses, study Prompto. Although there’s a sort of paint-stripping dryness to his words, Prompto doesn’t feel it’s unkind. “Ignis. Freelance mixologist, for the most part, but currently with the _nouveau régime_ of this establishment. A pleasure.”

 

They nod at each other once, and Prompto accepts his beer on the house, before Ignis is promptly whisked away by a colleague to tend to an actual customer.

 

Prompto, at a quarter past one, scouts the premises. He drinks slowly of his pale lager, and fits his hands to seams in the corners of rooms to measure the distance between the three different stages and the walls. He brings out his camera occasionally to snap close ups of the stucco in the roof, and of scuffed, velvet furniture. He is allowed outside by a guard, who stands erect at the exit through to the balcony.

 

The view of the city is stunning. Incandescent and deeply blue, Insomnia splays bare beneath him. Plaza Cristal is situated in the upscale neighborhood to the north of the palace, where Insomnia’s old architecture has been preserved. The houses around them are neoclassically arched, ornate with mascarons and marble inserts. Citadel’s balcony is meticulous and vaulted, balustrades meeting the railing, old acroterion deco above the door. Prompto almost holds his breath for a bit, before reaching for his camera to snap a few shots of the scenery.

 

He’d probably have been blind to the fact that he has company, if it weren’t for the fact that his flash snags in something to his left. Prompto, with all of his social and physical graces, does a sharp half-turn to spot what it is, camera still at the ready.

 

“Whoa, okay, slow down there, paparazzi,” says — someone, currently disembodied due to the fact that Prompto’s only managed to turn enough to spot half of the stranger’s torso in the shot. He slowly lowers his camera.

 

Leaned against the railing, sucking at the short end of a cigarette, is someone who Prompto’d describe as tall, dark and handsome. And a stranger, to boot.

 

He briefly entertains the snippet of a Perraultian daydream, in where he loses a shoe to the stranger in question. Only for a moment, before Prompto firmly kicks it out of his thoughts.

 

“Oh, sorry,” he says, “I didn’t realize you were here, as well.”

 

The stranger tilts his head. “I’ve been here since before you came out,” he points out, not unkindly.

 

Prompto flushes. Again. Seriously, what is it with tonight? Where’s his personal swagger gone and offed itself? (Hint: it never existed in the first place.) He clears his throat, and waves his camera a little haplessly about. “Sorry, again. I’ve kind of got tunnel vision sometimes.”

 

The stranger’s lips (bottom lip bitten red, Prompto notices) quirk, “Yeah? Tunnel vision’s what they call it these days, huh.”

 

Prompto isn’t exactly sure of what he means by that, but from his soft voice, almost drowned out by the music inside, and the gently teasing lilt to his tone, he guesses it’s not meant to be anything but in jest. He shrugs a little bashfully.

 

“Sorry,” says the stranger, “Just a dumb comment. You’re the METEOR photographer, right?”

 

“And you work here, too,” concludes Prompto, since everyone seems to have latched onto the fact that he’ll be coming in. He feels like an exhibition in a museum, kind of.

 

“I guess you could say that,” says the stranger. He doesn’t elaborate. Prompto doesn’t push.

 

“You smoke?”

 

Prompto shakes his head, declines the invitation of the packet the stranger stretches out to him. “Never could get into the habit,” he says.

 

The stranger snorts, “Good for you. And your resolve,” he lights another one with an ornate, crested lighter.

 

“My resolve’s got nothing to do with it,” says Prompto, “It’s awful. No offense.”

 

“Ha, yeah. It really is. No offense taken — I should probably stop, one of these days.”

 

“You really should,” agrees Prompto, “Wouldn’t want you dying prematurely.”

 

The stranger tilts his head, and his mouth, “That’s nice of you, given that we barely know each other.”

 

“Death’s bad,” says Prompto.

 

“Death is inevitable,” replies the stranger, conversationally like he thinks about this a lot, “But bad. Mostly.”

 

“Fair enough; _premature_ death isn’t very nice,” corrects Prompto.

 

The stranger’s small smile has widened, showing off teeth and a devastating smile. “Great conversation, buddy,” he says.

 

“I try,” says Prompto, going out on a strung wire, not at all like him, but this way, the stranger maintains his surprised smile, and Prompto doesn’t want to stop being on the receiving end of it.

 

He considers the stranger: he’s dressed in a black t-shirt and black pants, black combat boots. His black hair is artfully tousled, falling barely over one dark eye, edging the hollow below one high cheekbone. _Gods_ , is he attractive. How he’s holding himself together during this conversation, Prompto’s got no idea. Someone like that is always out of Prompto’s league, and most likely a model. It doesn’t explain what he’d do here, but maybe he’s a fourth bartender. Or an influencer. Someone Prompto could look up at Instagram and see has 602k followers and exclusively dates other models, or something.

 

“Sorry, do you know what time it is?” asks the model stranger, once the silence has stretched a little long, a little taught. Prompto glances at his wrist: 01:45. He twists it as to show him.

 

The stranger grimaces, “Ah, shit,” he says. He ashes his cigarette against the railing, already burnt to embers and flakes, “Guess my break’s over.”

 

Prompto isn’t, in hindsight, sure of what prompts him to ask, “If this is somewhat direct, sorry about that in advance. I just — my boss wants me to, if I’m allowed, shoot as much as possible of the place, and the people here, to get a kind of feeling for it. Can I — “ _take your picture, because I kind of want to tape it to my wall,_ is what he could have said, but doesn’t, because he’s not insane.

 

The stranger seems surprised, as if people don’t stop him in the street to ask for Snapchat selfies every other day. He seems to mull it over for a bit. For longer than Prompto’s strictly comfortable with, anyway. He’s about to apologize for his stupid concessions — what’s he thinking, _so_ sorry. But in that moment the stranger shrugs, and says, “Sure, I guess,” like there’s no second thought to it. Like he does get stopped in the street by strangers who ask for Snapchat selfies occasionally.

 

“Um, wow, okay,” escapes Prompto before he’s really conscious of it. He could get embarrassed, but the stranger laughs, low in his throat, to which Prompto’s gut responds by coiling in on itself hotly. Right, teenage rule #4273: don’t get aroused in public.

 

Prompto is a couple of years too removed from studio work to really remember how you direct actual models. Luckily for him, the stranger kind of looks like a work of art from each of his numerous angles, and the ten or so quick-fire snaps he fires off will probably end up looking good whichever he chooses. Better than good.

 

The stranger, right before he turns into the slithering corridors of the club again, looks back at Prompto. Something small is caught in the corner of his mouth, almost like a promise, “I never got your name,” he says.

 

“Prompto,” says Prompto, a little shell shocked, as the reality of the past twenty or so minutes catches up to him.

 

The stranger nods, “Prompto,” he says, parroting, _tasting_ — is that a thing you do? — Prompto’s name. “Nice to meet you.”

 

“Likewise, uh — “

 

“Noct,” supplies the stranger.

 

“Noct,” parrots Prompto. “Right. It’s — nice to meet you, too.”

 

Noct’s smile grows an inch wider. He waves his far hand, as he slips through the sliver of a crack in the door. Prompto remains standing there, alone, for a little while. He tries very hard to process the fact that this will be the only time he’ll ever likely talk to Noct, the model. Or, rather — the chances they have of meeting again, when ‘Noct’ is clearly a jet set something or other, and destined for billboards, or a Vogue Lucis spread, or a Cactuar d’or — are close to none.

 

He sighs a little wistfully, but within the moment, he’s likened himself with the unlikeliness of the reintroduction of Noct into his life ever again.

 

He heads back inside, twenty five minutes removed from the actual show he’s there to cover.

 

*

 

By the time Prompto has switched lenses in a relatively unmarked corner of the upper floor, drained his beer, received a bottle of water to carry on him by Ignis the bartender, and made his way downstairs again, it’s five past half. He thinks that if this guy’s punctual, he’ll have missed the opening sequence. If he isn’t, like most musicians, the pre-act might still be spinning a few of his vinyls on stage. Citadel, with its three separate stages on three separate floors, keeps a constant musical thrum reverberating through the building at all times. No matter who it is, _someone_ is.

 

But when Prompto squeezes his way past swathes of sweaty clubgoers vying for the inner room, his camera high above the crowd, he notices the absence of the tell tale beat of live music.

 

There’s a low strum that sounds almost like muzak filtering through the giant speakers mounted in front of the DJ booth. There’s some sort of frosted glass pane mounted above the mix table. On it is, predictably, the same crown of LUCAE’s insignia painted. Prompto purses his lips, unsure of whether to give in to his kneejerk what a douche-reaction, or to confess to its artistry. After all, if his curiosity is piqued, as someone who is, for all intents, exempt from the hype — then what’re the fans going to think?

 

There’s a willow-framed girl posted at the short stairs leading up to the podium. She’s dressed in a crown-emblazoned tee and an asymmetric leather skirt that cinches her waist. Her jaw is scored, and she’s talking to someone who looks like a sound tech guy, headphones half on, who’s fumbling with a few cords at her feet.

 

Prompto thinks, _staff_ , in relief, and starts making his way there. There’s some obvious discontent among the people he’s elbowing in the ribs to get in front of, so much that he’s starting to think that wearing his credits visible would’ve been a good idea, after all. He’s never worked much club in his days, not since he was at uni and shooting for the uni tribunal — but people, somehow, answer better to just a camera shoved up their face, rather than an accredited camera shoved up their face.

__

 

The girl snaps sharply to him as he makes his way forward, much farther than any of the clubbers are vying for. Her gaze drifts to the camera. “I sincerely hope that’s been ok’ed at the door.”

 

Prompto nearly snaps to attention beneath her scrutiny. “Yes, ma’am. I’m from METEOR. Prompto, photographer — nice to meet you.”

 

The girl considers him for a few additional beats. Then her frown breaks up, like a blanket of clouds clearing for the sun. She smiles widely. “Sorry,” she apologizes, “You never know. I’m not saying Gladdy isn’t good at his job, but considering the stuff that does slip past the door sometimes — Anyway, nice to meet you. I’m Iris.”

 

‘Gladdy’ Prompto deduces, must mean either one of the two bouncers at the door. Both of them had been looming and huge, forearms thicker than Prompto’s waist, so that one of them has a ridiculous nickname like that —

 

He shakes his head, and rests the camera against his thigh. The house, heavy in itself, isn’t exactly helped by the battery grip, the mounted flash and the wide angle lens, a little heavier than the 50mm he mounts on it for daily excursions. He looks stagewards, “What’s happening here?”

 

Iris sighs. She’s bent closer to Prompto, so as to not yell over the background noise, “Tech issues. They’re working on it. Something with the front right speaker, I’m not sure. Should be good to go in five, they say. So let’s hope for that.”

 

Prompto nods. “Here’s to hoping,” he says. He glances backwards; not that the crowd seems to mind. To his left, a group has taken to chanting, and straight backwards, most of the crowd keeps to itself. There’s a faint jostling that makes the crowd, packed tight in the relatively small room, rock gently from side to side.

 

“There’s no rush here,” says Prompto. He rights himself a little, leans into the stage next to Iris.

 

“No, I guess not,” she says, “But it’s our opening gig tonight. You just — want for things to be perfect, you know?”

 

Prompto inclines his head, of course he understands. “It’s _opening_ night, though. If anything’s going to go wrong, it’s probably tonight.”

 

Iris groans, “ _Your_ guy’s not gonna be the one getting shtick from the press for not being on time, Mr. Photographer.”

 

Prompto peers around the room. He hasn’t spotted any music critics he recognizes around. Then again, that doesn’t have to mean they’re not here. “ _Who_ are here?” he asks, a bit skeptical, “No offense, obviously. Just — techno isn’t exactly high brow music, and this isn’t really a high brow sort of crowd. I can’t say I ever read about club gigs in the papers.”

 

“No, instead, you’re reading about the Astrals gig in the papers. But it’s not like Astrals do high brow music, either,” says Iris, “The cream of the journalistic crop’s always there to cover _their_ shows, though.”

 

“To be fair, Astrals’ appeal is the fact that they’re roughly a hundred years old, and have been around for all of those hundred years. People are reminiscent by nature.”

 

“Well, fair enough,” says Iris, and sweeps a hand out at the venue, “IJ aren’t gonna pen us into the morning edition, but that’s not who we’re aiming for, anyway. We’ve made sure to invite the people we want to be here for this, and no one else.”

 

“And the Journal press corps is not among those,” concludes Prompto.

 

Iris flashes him a smile, “No, not really. I’m really proud of how successful PR has been, we received a huge amount of feedback going into tonight — _even_ the Journal wanted in on it. But we decided to go small and hand picked for press, rather than just inviting everyone who asked. Citadel’s never been the kind of place to allow press inside for shows, anyway. So we picked METEOR and Somnus from Lucis, Totomostro from Altissia, and Diamond Project Mag are here from Niflheim. Ebony Music Academy got the streaming rights, so as soon as the Six stop punishing me for something I did in another life, and the tech starts working, we’ll begin live streaming. It’s not a Boiler Room collab, Ebony have been very clear with that, but they’ve acknowledged the event, so we’re hoping some of their usual viewers will hop onto this. That’s official, not counting the bloggers who’ve been here since the place opened up.”

 

…Well. That’s a handful, Prompto thinks. “But, if you’re streaming live — what’s the point in limiting press credits?”

 

Iris tilts her head in his direction. She smiles. “Don’t you feel a little special, knowing that you’re one among four from press who’s even allowed inside for this?”

 

“Point, I guess,” concedes Prompto.

 

Iris, to her credit, only looks a little long suffering. Her smile tells Prompto that she’s explained this a few times before. “I’m guessing this isn’t where you like to spend your regular Sundays.”

 

“Heh. That obvious, is it,” says Prompto. He scratches at the back of his neck, “I’m not really much of a clubber. I mean, I can do this when I am out. I just, never am?”

 

Iris snorts, “Don’t worry,” she says, “I’m not judging. You’re either into it, or you’re not. I’m not much of a raver, either. It just comes with the job.”

 

“So you’re management, huh?”

 

“An understudy,” smiles Iris, “But yeah. Part of the team.”

 

“It’s a good team to be a part of,” says Prompto, “Ebony tweets that you’re ‘making history’ tonight. That’s not half bad, you know.”

 

Iris carefully doesn’t preen, but it’s a near thing. Prompto bites down on his smile, too fond to only have met her ten minutes prior. “Well, anyway, it’s the feeling of the venue that makes it so special here. I’m glad we’re ‘making history’, even if that’s somewhat overstating its importance.”

 

“To you and me, maybe — not to these guys,” he nods backwards, indicating the crowd.

 

“Oh, I like the music too. I’m just indulging you,” Iris grins, mischief in the tilt of her lips.

 

Prompto sighs, mock grieved and overzealous, “I’m so out of my element here. Can’t there be _one_ kind soul around?”

 

Iris’s grin grows. “Aw. Cheer up, you fledgling clubber you. You’ll get it as soon as we get the show on the road, I promise.”

 

The speaker whines, and reverberates to life behind them, as though respondent to the fact that it’s the sole reason for delaying the very same show from getting on the road. Prompto moves away in surprise. At his side, Iris pumps a fist into the air. She smiles at Prompto, “Alright. Time to get to work. You’ll have to tell me later what you thought.”

 

*

 

Working the hours between two and six AM proves to be something of a challenge, once it’s over. Prompto feels a little raw, overworked when he’s not. A little light headed when he glances down at his watch — the first time he does so in nearly three hours, and realizes the face of his watch stares back at him, owlishly displaying 5:47 AM.

 

LUCAE comes on stage at 2:56, to quaking applause and loud cheering. A guy scuttles forth to turn on a camera to record, mounted to the mix table. Iris is pitched half off stage, talking to someone behind the glass pane, when the music suddenly comes on. She backs up, leaning back into the wall, and gives the person a thumbs up. When she spots Prompto at the forefront of the stage, she smiles widely again.

 

Prompto feels, immediately, that this is not going to turn out and into a clubscape that he recognizes. It’s not a glorified drinking contest with a dance area, furnished and outfitted for hookups and social escapades. The music comes out slow, rumbling. Prompto thinks he recognizes the stripped base of the song, but can’t put a title to it. In the strip of uncovered space between the mix table and the glass pane, LUCAE’s hands — distinctly male, long, graceful fingers — twist the many, small control knobs in the middle of the mixer. Prompto makes certain to zoom into the shot so as to get rid of the noise and obstacles in the frame, only capture the flick of wrist when the DJ pushes the spinning vinyl-looking shape to his right.

 

The brunt of the set isn’t the tunes Prompto have listened to on reMIX. They’re others’, intermittently mixed to the blend of sounds that the DJ wants to create. It’s more atmospheric than Prompto would’ve given him credit for, softer in waves and harder in squalls. He sinks into it, the tempo of the work, the peaks of the crowd and the pressing heat of the room. The time slows until it moves almost independently of what his watch tells him. Everything is sticky, languid and unfolding unto a world of its own. It’s fascinating, and it drags Prompto down with it.

 

LUCAE wraps his set up at 5:55, but comes out twice to do some sort of DJ-encores. They’re short, and the music never fades, so to Prompto it doesn’t really constitute as true encores — but the crowd eats it up. The portion that isn’t shut eyed, gliding out per their own accord to disappear into the early morning, roar to life again as soon as the glass pane darkens, and LUCAE’s wrists flash across his mixer in the open panel. Prompto shoots glassy eyed and slack jawed admirers at the front of the crowd fencing, sweaty patrons at the back, who’re lounging until closing, and a few groups that are still hard on both liquor and party. Whatever he’s covered that can be attributed as clubs before — it’s not this.

 

He leaves the premises relatively quickly, once the show is certifiably over. A few from security, who Prompto have spotted around the club, are shepherding people out.

 

Prompto checks his watch again: 06:22. With it comes the sensation of vertigo that’s somehow refrained from overcoming him before. He’s been up for 24 hours, and he’s going to begin feeling it now, once his energy drains, once the rush fades. He feels like a doped up kid, somehow — overcome with the levity of the whole experience. This is what they feed off, he guesses.

 

He doesn’t spot Iris, and not any of the others he’d talked to during the night. There’s no sign of the bouncer, nor of Ignis, the bartender. Unsurprisingly, neither does he spot Noct the model.

 

There’s a snaking of cabs lining the street as he gets out. The sky is pink with morning, the air crisp with late May. Prompto breathes it in, slings his bag over one shoulder, and makes his way towards the subway.

 

*

 

 **Ebony Music Academy** @EMUA  
Relive  @LUCAE historial @CitadelClub debut. It was worth staying up for, even from home — we promise emua.lu/LUCAELIVE  
  
**Boiler Room** @BoilerRoomTV  
Go live inside Insomnia’s  @CitadelClub for the first time with our partner @EMUA. Kudos @LUCAE,  set tonight  
  
**Prompto Argentum** @MrQuicksilver  
Man, the most intense work weekend is over. Watch out for pics of  #Astrals at #DomeInsomnia, #LUCAE at #Citadel on the blog later   
  
**Noct Caelum** @NoctisCaelum  
@MrQuicksilver that lineup’d be killer if you hadn’t forgotten about one Very Important Act

 

*

 

Prompto wakes up at ten past two on Monday afternoon, legs tangled in his sheets, a sunspot the size of himself making it sweltering. He groans and swipes at his hair, matted and limp with sweat across his forehead. He twists onto his stomach and rests his forehead against the (relative) cool of his forearm. He reaches for his phone, lying screen down on the edge of his bed.

 

Usually, when he wakes up, he has maybe two social media notifications, sometimes a call from mom, and tops one missed, work-related call from some idiot clocking overtime doing all their retouch in the middle of the night.

 

Not fifteen unread emails, twenty three Twitter notifications, and four pings about comments and follows on his blog.

 

Prompto blinks at the screen. He peers closer at it. He isn’t wearing his glasses, after all, but — nope. That’s twenty three, four, fifteen — 42 notifications of some sort of contact that someone else has attempted to initiate with him over various social media channels.

 

He thumbs down to begin reading at the bottom.

 

And stops cold in his tracks in the middle.

 

The Twitter blurb sits innocently nestled between three retweets and four favorites:

 

@NoctisCaelum replied to your Tweet: @MrQuicksilver that lineup’d be killer if you hadn’t forgotten about one Very Important Act

 

He rereads the notification thrice. And then another time, for good measure. Then he looks up, looks around to check his surroundings for signs of dreamscapes or an impending apocalypse.

 

Nothing. Everything is _irritatingly normal_ , in fact.

 

Prompto reads the notification again, and feels, not unlike what’s normal for him these days — like a moron. Noct, devastating stranger from the club, is of course Noctis Caelum, son of Regis Caelum, CEO of Caelum Recordings, label dynasty and ranking in the Top 5 on ShinRa’s Most Valuable Business-list each and every year. He’s regularly featured on Most Eligible Bachelor-lists, tops Crush of the Week-polls, probably does have 602k followers. Prompto is one of them, but it’s been some time since he checked what is up on his profile. Noctis Caelum is not an avid Instagram user. Occasionally posts some black and white, blurry shot of some unrecognizable, but not a lot else.

 

Prompto wonders how the _fuck_ he could’ve possibly failed to recognize him. The setting, probably. And the sheer improbability of the scenario, as it were. Had someone told him yesterday morning that he’d be hitting it up with Noctis Caelum in one of Insomnia’s most exclusive nightclubs, well, Prompto would’ve probably replied with one long pterodactyl scream, and little else.

 

He stares a little more at the tweet. It has, since it was written, at 11:34, spawned Prompto seven new followers, the three previously mentioned retweets of his original tweet, as well as four favorites to it.

 

He’s not sure at all how to react, so he leaves it alone, and rolls out of bed. If he can drown himself in work, he won’t have to think about the fact that no matter what he’ll end up replying, will make him look like an incompetent moron when compared to Noctis.

 

*

 

 **METEOR** @METEORmag  
EXCLUSIVE: Taking the pulse on the elusive LUCAE, the resurgent Lucian house genre’s top prospect:  mete.or/5lv8Qj  
  
**The Dino** @DinoGhiranze  
IT’S DINO: With Astrals outro, have Insomnia discovered a new jewel for its musical crown? gabe.lu/4xLCig  
  
**LUCAE** @LUCAE  
Huge thanks to crowd at Citadel last night for making my set so special, I hope you enjoyed yourselves  
  
**Iris Amicitia** @ItsIris  
How amazing is the @METEORmag story on @LUCAE set from this wknd?! Thanks to all the people who made it happen — you’re all rockstars   
  
@MrQuicksilver followed @ItsIris, @EMUA + **3**  
  
@ItsIris followed @MrQuicksilver  
  
**Iris Amicitia** @ItsIris  
@MrQuicksilver Mr Meteor!! Missed you on the way out, sorry. Had to haul equipment bc my brother’s lazy. Hope you enjoyed the show!!  
  
**Prompto Argentum** @MrQuicksilver  
@ItsIris tbh i was way quick leaving... i did! not totally into this techno thing yet, but tell your DJ he’s good according to a noob ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
  
**Iris Amicitia** @ItsIris  
@MrQuicksilver haha, tell him yourself! He’ll be happy @LUCAE  
  
@NoctisCaelum followed @MrQuicksilver  
  
@MrQuicksilver followed @NoctisCaelum

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> music bullet points! because this is a terribly indulgent fic about music!
> 
> • the song that inspired this whole ordeal is in the title. chrvches’ leave a trace, the four tet remix.
> 
> • noct’s sound is inspired by solomun. the tulum boiler room set, as well as the destino ibiza set from last year, are personal favorites, and good reference points.
> 
> • luna and ravus’s brother-sister act is inspired by broods and XYLØ.
> 
> so this is a beast. and like, the third <20k-length i’m working on simultaneously. the flow worked well for this, so i was able to write pretty much non-stop as soon as i sat down with it. _dark matter_ and _stillness in woe_ are coming along, but slower. they’re meatier in plot, and i want to get everything from research to mood to settings right for both, hence the delay. this is light-hearted, and supposed to be silly, and was a lot easier to write just as i was despairing over how nothing xv fic-related seemed to work for me. i haven’t abandoned the rest, i promise you that!
> 
> anyway: i hope you’ll enjoy reading this as much as i enjoyed writing it. thank you, as always, for every kind comment and kudos on my other ffxv fics. y’all are fantastic, and i’m still so amazed at how kind and fun people in this fandom are.
> 
> i am, as usually, on [on twitter](http://twitter.com/ddelline).


End file.
